


Tales of Fen'Harel

by theharellan



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Elvhen Lore, Elvhenan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-02-04 02:18:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12761067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theharellan/pseuds/theharellan
Summary: There are always two sides to every legend. A series of original legends about Fen'Harel.





	1. Fen'Harel's Minions

**Author's Note:**

> _found in the Emerald Graves, among a grove of trees where a body lies, seemingly having died in their sleep._

Beware wisps, the Keepers say, for they are the Dread Wolf’s minions.

There has been many a tale of young elves led astray by these creatures. They breach the confines of dreams, nestling in one’s hand and wrenching free when they are touched. Each time fingers reach to catch starlight in their hands the wisp bounces away, shimmering. It giggles as it goes, leading them from the confines of their dreams and into the raw Fade.

It does not speak, but it promises much. Wisdom, knowledge, fortune, perhaps they know where Fen’Harel has hidden the gods away, perhaps they will bring good luck.

Yet the end of the road is always the same. In the shadows white teeth gleam, and three pairs of red eyes stare from beyond the nothingness. The wisp vanishes in a peal of laughter, drowned out by the sound of low growling--

The dreamer never wakes.

* * *

A well-dressed man follows in the wisps’s wake. The Fade twists around them, and yet there are a thousand paths to take, spreading through this world like spidered veins. It dances from his reach, its laughter the herald for riches beyond his imagination. Every Dreamer knows there is fortune to be found at the end of every path-- be it wealth or wisdom, both are valuable in Elvhenan, even now.

But what waits when the path halts abruptly is no boon. An elf with wild hair and wilder grin, leering at the man. The wisp darts from the man’s grip one last time and settles upon the elf’s shoulder. Trust turns to dread, and the man realises who it is he faces.

“It promised fortune,” Fen’Harel chuckles, “but it did not specify whose fortune.”

A lunge, a cry, blood mingles with the green shine of raw Fade.

His death promises the freedom of hundreds. That night they touch their reflections in still pools, recognising the bare faces staring back as their own.


	2. The Girl Who Drew Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _found in a ruined, not far from the Waking Sea, before a painting of a wolf that looks as fresh as the day it was painting despite its dilapidated surroundings._

There was once a little girl who drew wolves.

On walls she’d scrawl their shape, carving out a shaggy coat of fur with a few deft flicks of her wrist. The villagers, who worshiped Andruil, admonished her. They took her paints and charcoal away, leaving her with naught but dirt to scribble in. From house to house the villagers went with water and brushes, scraping the wolves from the walls. But when the villagers reached the last house, the house of the girl herself, to scrub their walls clean they found a stranger leaning over them.

“These wolves,” he said. “Who drew them?”

“She did,” said the villagers. Every finger pointed at the young girl.

The stranger turned upon her, but there was no accusation in his gaze. Indeed, his lips were parted in a grin. He drew his finger to his lips, a silent, conspiratorial signal. “As punishment for your crimes,” said the stranger, “I will bind these drawings to your home, as a reminder of your mistake.” A single press of his hand against the wall sealed the drawings, which seemed to melt into the stonework. Without another word the stranger left, leaving nothing but wisps in his wake.

The village tried to wash the wolf away, scrubbing ‘til their knuckles were rubbed raw, but it did not fade. They had no choice but to leave it, for every piece of cloth they tried to cover it with seemed to blow away in the wind. Soon, they forgot about it altogether. All but the little girl, who touched it every day and wondered why the stranger had burned it to her wall.

Years passed, and soon the girl was no longer little. Though she walked in Andruil’s steps, she forever carried a wolf in her heart.

When bandits came, and flaming arrows rained down upon thatched roofs, it was not the Goddess of the Hunt who came to the village’s aid. As the first arrow buried itself in the roof of the girl’s house the painted wolf sprang to life. Fangs bared, it tore the throats from any bandit who drew near her. Arrows pierced its hide, and yet it did not stumble. Blood gushed between white teeth, red eyes flashing as it turned upon her tormentors.

The bandits fled, pursued by the beast, and when the dust cleared and the dead were mourned the villagers realised their mistake. They thanked the girl for her drawings, and made an offering to Fen’Samahl for his protection.

Later it is said that the girl joined the ranks of the Wolf, offering her skills as an artist to the gods themselves.


	3. The Firefly & the Jar

Once there was a firefly who thought their light the equal of the gods. To prove their worth, they set their sights upon the most fearsome of their enemies: the Forgotten Ones. The firefly stole into the heart of Geldauran’s* home, where he plotted the downfall of the very gods they wished to join. At first, they were beneath his notice. When they cast their cloak of starlight from their shoulders he did not turn or even cast his eyes upon them. When they rose their voice in a challenge his ears did not so much as twitch in their direction.

It was only when they invoked the name of the Creators that Geldauran took notice, their names drawing his gaze. When his eyes fell upon them, the firefly glowed its brightest and nocked an arrow, its tip aimed at Geldauran’s throat. Yet even its brightest light paled in comparison to the divine, whom Geldauran had watched with envy for so many centuries.

A single swat sent it flying through they air, where they landed in a glass jar, quickly corked. Geldauran laughed and proclaimed they would make a fine lantern, then placed them upon the mantle and paid them no more mind.

For a fortnight, their glow would provide a light for Geldauran’s dark deeds. Until, one day, Fen’Harel had come to the realm of the Forgotten Ones, where he so often wandered, and saw a familiar light shining through the door frame. When he saw its source, he inquired after the lantern upon Geldauran’s mantle, and asked its price.

They bartered for days, for Geldauran was greedy and filled with lust for what the Creators had. When he demanded a coal from Sylaise’s hearth, Fen’Harel agreed, having already devised a plan.

Rather than steal a single coal from Sylaise’s fire, Fen’Harel set ablaze a piece of charcoal he had been drawing with, and returned it to Geldauran. Fooled, the Forgotten one took what was his, and surrendered the firefly in exchange for the divine flame.

The two fled from Geldauran’s domain as quick as their feet could carry them, knowing they would not have much time. Fen’Harel’s fire was not half as clever as Sylaise’s, and the charcoal could not burn for half as long. When the light in his window died, a great roar shook the realm, but he had realised too late. They were already gone, returned to the golden lights of Elvhenan, leaving Geldauran in darkness.

_\- The Firefly in the Jar, as it was told by Hahren Merrill of the Kirkwall Alienage, recorded by Serane._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Some Dalish clans who tell this tale do not use Geldauran’s name, for fear that speaking it will summon him to their dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my Solas rp blog - theharellan. An ongoing series of drabbles.


End file.
